


To Pass the Time

by norgbelulah



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Masturbation, Missing Scene, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-29 08:09:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norgbelulah/pseuds/norgbelulah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is a long ride to Switzerland.  Simza knows how to pass the time.</p><p>Spoilers for A Game of Shadows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Pass the Time

In the train car, as the landscape passes them by twice as fast as any horse can gallop, Simza has just watched a man, an extraordinary man, come back from the dead.

His eyes are wide and his friend’s, the doctor’s, show undisguised relief. Sherlock’s breathy words come faster than usual and ask questions he should know the answer to before he collapses on the floor. Simza approaches the two men and watches them, transfixed.

They speak in a comfortable rhythm, one she has noticed before. It tells her they are close, closer than brothers perhaps. She is not unwise in these matters.

They speak quietly now, in low tones of regret and apology and she listens and does not judge. There is a woman, she thinks, the doctor’s new wife that has come between them. She wonders if they will let another in as well, if only for a short while.

The decision to go to Switzerland is made and the doctor stitches his friend’s wounds as Simza watches, silent.

When the doctor finishes, Simza knows her other companions have fallen asleep, having finished medicating their own wounds and sorrows with strong drink. They were not so grievously wounded as Sherlock.

The doctor says the wound to Sherlock’s shoulder was a puncture and tore only at muscle. Nothing needs to be set, it’s only a matter of the patient not moving his arm too strenuously. At least for the time being, with their limited resources.

Sherlock sniffs delicately and says, “It’s not as if there’s anything to do that would be strenuous inside this rickety box.”

It is now that Simza chooses to lean forward and fix them both, Sherlock first, then the doctor, John, with long stares.

They look at her, John’s hand on Sherlock’s wrist, measuring the beats of his heart for the third time since the man roared back to life, and she leans forward and says, “Would you like to fuck?”

John’s face goes white then red and he opens his mouth but no sound emerges. Sherlock’s lips quirk for just a moment, but fall to a frown when they turn to look at each other. He is a bundle of nerves, still twitching from the mysterious shot to his chest.

She knows he would like nothing better. She smiles and thinks he will be her ally.

“If only to pass the time,” she elaborates innocently and hikes her skirts above her knees, spreading them just a little. “You have never had a gypsy woman, I think.”

Both men look away from her, Sherlock with just the barest hesitation. Simza knows he has just seen everything.

John’s eyes are screwed tight and his head is straining towards the wall. “No,” he grinds out. “I’m sorry. I’m flattered. I’m a married man.”

“Not everything one can accomplish in this type of situation involves consummation,” Sherlock murmurs. His eyes have come back to hers and he is smiling wickedly.

John whirls around fast, his finger pointing at his friend, the particular kind of annoyance he reserves only for this man returning to his expression. Sherlock’s smile has disappeared. “It’s your fault I didn’t even have the opportunity to consummate my marriage. And now, and now you seem to be suggesting--”

“I was merely observing,” Sherlock replies in a light tone of appeasement. “There are other things that could be done.”

“Well, I’m not doing them,” John cries and looks quickly at Simza then away, perhaps in apology, or something like regret. “It’s the principle, Holmes, my God.”

Sherlock throws a glare at him, “I didn’t say you were. Perhaps _I_ will.” He now glances back at Simza. “If you don’t mind,” he offers with a charming smile.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I did,” she says slowly. “My idea, remember?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” His expression says he had.

“Don’t mind me,” John grumbles, moving away. “I’ll just be, over here. While you’re...” he trails off and waves his fingers angrily before he settles himself across the car, against the cold boards that make up the walls of their transport.

Simza tilts her head toward Sherlock. “I am familiar with English prudishness. But still, I do not understand it. Even if he doesn’t want to, he needn’t be so... upset.”

Sherlock smiles and flicks his eyes over to his friend. “He’s just no fun anymore.”

John smiles in return, ironic, but not exactly angry any longer, with his eyes closed, and Simza is surprised he can hear them over the roaring of the train. “You say that like I was ever any fun at all. Your kind of fun, I mean.”

“Ah, yes, my kind. The best kind,” Sherlock says with a wink to Simza.

“Very similar to my kind?” she asks in a low voice and rises, moving to straddle him slowly, carefully. She looks up at him through her lashes and his hand, the one not cradled against his chest, moves curled fingers across her bare thigh. His nails graze her skin.

As she leans forward, the doctor speaks again, “You had best not jostle that shoulder too much, Holmes.”

He rises a little against her and, in the same moment that he pushes her skirts aside, moving his fingers efficiently and expertly to her place of pleasure, shoots back, “Then why don’t you come over here and make sure I’m performing to your standards.”

Simza presses her lips to Sherlock’s hairline and gasps at his swift attentions. His hands guide her down and their lips meet. She wonders that he thought to touch her like that before they had even kissed.

His lips are warm and lovely. He tastes of pipe smoke and something bitter. She tangles her hands in his hair, musses it carelessly and her world narrows to just his mouth, his hand.

He is only caressing her with one hand, but somehow she’s on fire. Her hands shake as she unbuttons the fly of his trousers, the strings of his undergarments and she’s forced to look down to accomplish the task, tearing their lips apart, panting still at the motion of his hands. “Y-you are relentless,” she breathes.

“Shall I be too much for you?” he asks in a low voice against her ear and she thinks perhaps he is looking past her. But she looks up to see his eyes admonishing her that she thought she’d have the upper-hand in this situation. “I think you have not had a man like me, my dear.”

She gasps again as he slips two fingers inside her, she groans and grits her teeth and makes herself concentrate on him. She gets her own fingers finally around his cock, slowly, almost fumbling, but she sees the contact register in his eyes, in the purse of his lips. He makes no sound.

She pumps it once, up and down, hard, and his mouth falls open. He glares at her and his thumb presses down with equal pressure, causing her hips to buck against him. “Perhaps,” she groans, pulling herself closer to him, speaking as she licks her way across his stubbly jawline and neck. “But I think we are an even match.”

“At least,” his own breath finally labored, “in this arena. I shall,” he catches her mouth once again, sucking hard at her lower lip. He takes his hand from between her legs, as he finishes, “I shall grant you that.”

Simza whimpers and can’t even relish her small victory. She tries to catch at his hand, wanting it back badly, but he is busy working at her shirt. He eyes her dubiously and asks, indicating her breasts, “What’s the fun without these?”.

She makes a frustrated noise and bats his hand away. “I’ll do it,” she says, popping the buttons on her vest and shirt, exposing her chest and pressing her nipples against him. “Either put your fingers or your cock inside me, or I shall take my blade to both.”

He begins to comply without a word, but Simza hears a low sound from behind her and she stiffens.

“Not to worry,” Sherlock tells her, smoothing his palm across her right breast in a slow circle that makes all her muscles contract and strain for him. “It’s just Watson. Catching up.”

She turns to see the doctor, staring at them with wide, dark eyes. His hand is wrapped tight around his cock, his limbs sprawled across the floor of the train car. She smiles and tilts her head back, sighing as Sherlock slides himself inside her.

“Do come when convenient,” Sherlock says casually, though there is strain in his voice, and Simza is not sure to whom he is speaking.

She stops wondering when she begins to ride him. She knows his body cannot take the strain, so she tries to push him down, her hand flat on his chest. His eyes flick past her, quickly, and then meet her gaze.

She concedes with half a smile, dragging a pillow and some of her discarded clothing around for him to lay back against and they move together, adjusting, so that she can pull and push, moan and sigh, and he can still watch the doctor touching himself.

Simza hears John trying to suppress the sound of his pleasure. He is not as good as his companion, who still has not made a sound. She begins to think of it as a challenge.

His hand on her has not stilled, traveling in intricate movements across her breasts and torso, up and down in circles along her thigh and between her legs again. When his fingers meet the cleft of her once again, as she is full of him and thrusting faster and faster, she moans, loud and murmurs broken sentences to his lips in his language and her own. She claws fingers through his wild hair and hisses things she knows he understands into his ear.

Moments later, she hears John’s broken orgasm, roughly torn from his lips. Sherlock stiffens against her, but he hasn’t come and she keeps going, faster still, mindless and panting. Simza doesn’t hear the man rise from the floor, or his soft approach behind her.

She feels a light touch on her back and she almost loses the rhythm, but not quite. He is not looking at her as she tosses her head and watches him out of the corner of her eye. He comes around to her side and when Sherlock sees him his eyes flash and his hand grips hard on her hip, so hard she gasps again and barely hears the single syllable wrenches from the man’s mouth. “ _Joh_ \--”

He bites the name back quickly and Simza feels it coming over her, swiftly now and she grunts, wanting it now, feeling it. “So close,” she whimpers. Her eyes are shut but she knows John has knelt down behind Sherlock, she feels that he has in the easing, then tightening of the muscles beneath her, in the hitch and flow of breath across her neck.

“So close,” she says again and then it crashes over her. She cries out and Sherlock’s arms wraps around her waist, even as John murmurs, “I’m here now.”

She forces herself to look at them. John is staring at her as if she’s the most debauched thing he’s ever seen. His pupils are blown wide open and he has one hand pressed gently to Sherlock’s wounded shoulder and the other tangled in his hair. Sherlock has pressed his lips to the pulse point on John’s neck as he whimpers and groans, as if he’s just been given permission, and she feels his hips buck one last time and the warm rush as he comes inside her. She doesn’t stop moving until they’re both finished, riding it out beautifully, and she doesn’t look away.

Sherlock’s knees are propped up behind her and she lays herself back against them, stretching her muscles languidly, enjoying the feel of him loose and wet inside her. She blinks and tilts her head at John, smiling like a fool.

He blushes again, very prettily, but still meets her eyes. Sherlock is breathing deep against his neck and he soothes him, murmuring, “Sleep now, old boy. Let it go for a while. I’m here.”

But Sherlock opens his eyes and smiles at Simza. “Evenly matched, yes?” he asks roughly.

She leans forward, letting him slide out of her, and kisses the corner of his mouth softly. They are finished now, and long kisses, kisses of passion, are only for lovers. “Quite,” she murmurs and winks at John as she rises. He quirks a lip at her and begins to examine Sherlock’s shoulder once more.

Simza hopes that his woman understands this thing, these men, well. She thinks it is not a thing to be trifled with.

Months later, she will wonder if Sherlock knew what might be coming at Reichenbach. Years later, she will ask him and he will smile and change the subject. John will blush for her again.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written sort of in a rush, before the film could leave my headspace. Btw, in the theater during that scene, when Simza's looking between the two of them, all I could think was her saying, "Want to fuck?"
> 
> Also, forgive a first time writer in the fandom for any anachronisms or what-have-you. Thanks to [info]rillalicious for the quick beta.


End file.
